


To Hold: Zevran and Alim

by DAfan7711



Series: Dragon Age - Short stories, Vignettes [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Circle problems, Comfort Sex, Depression, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Play, Short One Shot, tranquility mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 12:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: Zevran comforts his friend Alim in their tent, which leads to more intimacy.





	To Hold: Zevran and Alim

**Author's Note:**

> After the first two seconds of battle, Zevran Arainai had considered his own death likely. Now he lay on the ground, the sole survivor of his ambush, surprised that the white-haired Circle healer had bound his wounds. Perhaps it was just to keep him alive long enough for questioning.

Above him stood three mages—two dressed as Chasinds—who carried their staffs openly, a red-headed rogue with a sexy Orlesian accent, a grim Qunari, and a sturdy Fereldan man with a sword and shield. All were covered in blood, some of it his own.

One of the mages stood at the front of the group, his dark skin more a deep, muted red than brown. The Chasind Robes he wore showed off an alluring strip of his upper chest, but he spoke as eloquently as a Circle mage. His hair, shaved close to his scalp, was a lovely, earthy russet. His ears were wider, rounder, and fuller than Zevran’s own, but still clearly pointed at the tip. An elf. And a mage. Yet he led. Intimacy with a traveling company’s captain was often the best way to ensure safe passage. Too bad he seemed as immune to Zevran’s flirting as the blond warrior at his side.

“You're taking the assassin with us now?” The warrior sounded younger than his broad shoulders and battle fineness had first led Zevran to believe, closer to twenty than thirty. “If there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.”

Zevran knew all about desperation.

It was easy to accept Warden Surana’s hand up, and his oath of loyalty flowed from his lips as easily as blood from a wound. It was survival.

Survival was everything.

“But, Alim, where will he sleep?” the warrior asked. “He’ll slit our throats.”

“Alistair,” the mage sighed, “I’m not leaving anyone out in the rain, and I’m used to roommates. There’s room in my tent with me and Bakara.”

The mabari gave a happy woof from where she sat at her master’s side. Zevran wasn’t fooled by her casual panting and lopsided sit. She could have his throat torn out in less than a blink. Dogs could _smell_ if you so much as _thought_ a violent thought. He would be on his best behavior.

“’Tis more likely he will poison us,” the dark-haired mage said. Blinding sunlight glinted off the heavy gold necklace that hung above her creamy white cleavage. “Do not let him near the stew pot.”

“Is all this talking necessary?” the Qunari asked. “We should get moving. The archdemon won’t kill itself.”

Alim waved his hand for silence. “Zevran, you can be rear guard with Sten, if you feel up to moving on now? We have a long march ahead of us.”

“Of course, my Warden.” Zevran bowed. He could march forever, just as long as it meant they didn’t kill him.

-

“Ever wonder ‘Why me?’ Zevran?” Alim sat hunched over the camp fire, even though it wasn’t his turn to keep watch. Bakara lay her head in his lap and he absently scratched at her ears.

It had been three weeks of wearying foot travel and messy fighting since they met. Their adventures had been burdensome instead of fun. Darkspawn and bandits harried them along almost every path. They’d found Redcliffe plagued by the undead, and Alim had insisted they try to save everyone there, including the bitchy Arlessa and her possessed son, which was only possible with more mages and lyrium. _That_ had led them to a boat ride across the lake to the Circle, where they found Kinloch Hold overrun by abominations. Alim had insisted on saving everyone they could, of course. The Knight-Commander and Grand Enchanter seemed reasonable enough men, but Zevran wondered if Alim should have left the Templar they’d found in a cage to the demons; he seemed the sort that would hunt you across continents.

They’d acquired the Circle mages’ aid, saved the Arl’s son and wife, but the Arl still lay abed, unconscious and unresponsive. Now they trekked up the Frostback Mountains on a search for a miracle cure that only Leliana and Alistair had faith in: The Urn of Sacred Ashes, the supposed remains of Andraste herself. They hoped the Arl would waken hale and hearty, put an end to Ferelden’s civil war, and get the Wardens an army to march on the archdemon. To complicate matters even further, they still didn’t know where the beast was hiding, despite the dragon nightmares that made Alim wake screaming.

Each day the light in Alim Surana’s eyes grew dimmer. He’d hug his dog, sometimes smile blandly at a joke, but his spirit was fading into a despondent hole Zevran found all too familiar. It was where he’d spent most of his time since he and Taliesen had received the order to cut Rinna from their trio.

Alim’s easy acceptance of him made his darkness a little lighter. Except for when Alim’s nightmares woke him, Zevran slept soundly each night, trusting the mage and mabari to alert him to dangers. He still slept with a knife hidden under his head, but he found he no longer gripped it in his sleep. Alim always offered him second helpings at dinner, asked if he was ready to march, spoke to him with as much respect as he showed his mentor from the Circle and the bastard prince who was his fellow Warden.

There was no special treatment, no flirting, though he deflected Zevran’s teasing with sleek skill. It was the same courtesy he showed everyone in the group. They were all equals in his eyes. It was a belonging Zevran had never experienced before, and he wouldn’t trade any one of his days at Alim’s side for an entire lifetime with Taliesen.

That thought made his chest hurt. He still yearned for Taliesen, but . . . this—whatever this was—had begun to fill a hole in him he didn’t know he’d had.

Zevran leaned back on his hands, watching Alim in the warm firelight. Snow melted into little muddy puddles by their boots. “What do you mean, my friend?”

“I know it’s mostly dumb luck, that unusual circumstances made me a Warden, made Alistair and me the last hope for ending this Blight, but I still wonder: Why me? Why was I put here? Why am I the one who survived? Why does everyone want me to find their trinkets, lost children, archdemon? Why me? I am no one special.”

“Ah, but you are special, my Warden. In many ways. That you are a Grey Warden is just a coincidence.”

Alim gave a skeptical snort and hugged Bakara close, burying his face in her neck.

“But what about you, Zevran?” Alim mumbled against the dog, determined to have an answer. “Do you ever wonder?”

He resigned himself to telling a half-truth. “Yes, I do wonder that sometimes.”

 _Why me? Why do I hurt? Why am I hungry? Why do I live when I’ve killed so many of my lovers?_ He knew the answer: it _was_ luck, mixed with a kill-or-be-killed strategy. The whores kept him around to be useful, only until the Crows offered to pay for him. The Crows kept him around to be useful, only until he stopped making them money. Before Alim, he’d known everyone to be out for themselves.

 _Why did the Warden spare me?_ had been a question that bothered him for a fortnight, but now he knew: Alim gave selflessly. That was more of a miracle than any sacred urn.

“Hmmm.” Alim sat up. “And what answer do you find?”

The truth would not help, but a coping tactic might. “I find that a good night’s sleep usually cures me of the question.”

Alim chuckled. “All right, I get the message. I’ll stop moping and distracting you from the watch. Good night, Zevran.”

“Good night.”

Bakara followed Alim into their tent. The rustle of him preparing for bed was barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

Leliana stepped from her tent in full armor.

“Ah, my beautiful goddess awakes,” Zevran said with more habit than interest. “Sleep eludes you, my darling?”

She smirked. “Save your compliments for your tent mate, Zevran.” Oh, how he did enjoy how she called him _Zev-ran_ in her Orlesian lilt. Still, however lovely her form and clever her rogue fingers, he would have preferred to continue his conversation with Alim.

She brought some more logs over from the freshly cut woodpile next to Sten’s tent and built up the fire.

The subtle sounds of sniffling came from the tent he shared with Alim. The Grey Warden was crying. Should he do something about it? He had sent him off alone, when he’d seemed interested in company.

Leliana hugged her arms around herself and looked resolutely into the fire.

Bakara wandered out and leaned on Zevran’s leg, butting her head under his hand.

“Yes, my friend? What is it you need?”

She whined again, and took the end of his jerkin in her mouth, pulling toward the tent.

“Go to him, Zevran,” Leliana said. “I will wake Alistair when it is his watch. Go.”

When he stood, Bakara sat on Leliana’s foot and looked up at her. “Good girl.” She patted her head.

Zevran approached the tent slowly, making his footfalls loud enough that Alim could hear and hide his face or pretend to be sleeping if he wanted to.

Alim lay on his side, his back toward the tent flap.

Zevran set aside his weapons, removed his boots, and stripped down to his undertunic and smalls. The one time he’d stripped down to his skin, Alim had blushed and turned away.

He sat on his bedroll, uncertain what to do next.

“Zevran?” Alim hiccupped.

“Yes?”

“It was good advice, but I don’t think I can sleep. Any other ideas?”

The urge to curl around him was overwhelming. To be his shield against his hurts.

“Sometimes you hold Bakara . . .”

“Yes?”

“What if I were to hold you?”

“You—you would do that for me?”

Zevran almost laughed. He would storm the Maker’s Golden City for this man, and yet Alim doubted himself worthy of a simple touch.

“I would like to,” Zevran said.

“Okay. We can share blankets tonight. It’s certainly cold enough on this mountain.”

Alim stiffened when Zevran pulled his blankets over to his side. “If you want me to roll back over to the other side of the tent, just say so at any time. Or elbow me awake.”

“I would never elbow you,” Alim whispered. “I’m just not used to . . . close proximity.”

Come to think of it, Zevran had never seen him casually touch anyone other than the dog. He would sit by anyone at the campfire, share chores, pass a stew spoon, but he never offered casual touches. He wasn’t standoffish like Morrigan or Sten, and he let Alistair lay a friendly hand on his shoulder, but even in battle, he was a ranged fighter. He seemed unpracticed in any type of physical contact with another person.

He eased up against Alim’s warm back and pulled the covers up over them both, draping his arm loosely over Alim’s waist. Alim’s contented sigh made Zevran relax, let down his guard.

He smelled of leather straps and the camp soap he used to give Bakara a bath. There was something else hovering over his skin, a sharp spice too wild to be found in a Fereldan Circle.

He’d not held anyone—or been held—in a long time. Despite his teasing, it was usually for comfort, warmth, or friendship when he found himself in this position. He curled in closer, and let his arm drift up across Alim’s chest in a sleepy hug.

Alim’s aroused intake of breath made him pause, suddenly awake. Experimentally, he spread his hand open on Alim’s tunic and flicked a thumb over his nipple, making him gasp in pleasure. Well, well, perhaps he had found another way to comfort him after all.

“Do you enjoy that, my Warden?”

“Yes.” His answer was needy.

“More?”

“Yes.”

That little word had his own cock straining against his smalls. But tonight wasn’t about him.

Zevran slid his hand down Alim’s side to his hip and was pleasantly surprised to find he wore no smalls under his tunic. It was too soon to be distracted there. He already knew Alim liked his nipples fondled. He slipped his hand under Alim’s tunic, ran his fingers slowly up his hot, quivering belly. His chest was broader than Zev’s, with amazing definition for a scholar. Then again, Zev had seen him expertly wield a staff and climb mountains.

He rolled and pinched Alim’s nipple between two fingers.

“Oh! Zev. Yes,” he hissed, arching his neck back.

“More?” Zevran asked, lips pressed against the skin of Alim’s shoulder, where the tunic had gapped.

Alim hummed his assent through his nose, ground his ass back against Zevran’s erection, making it very hard for Zev to keep it slow. He pinched Alim’s nipple again and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the side of his throat, just a little suckle, not enough to leave a mark.

“Yes! Zev, Zev, Zev.”

Zevran dragged his palm down Alim’s stomach, down, down, past his hips, across his coarse curly hair, and wrapped his fingers around Alim’s cock.

“Zev,” he groaned, hands fisting in the blankets.

“More, my Warden?”

“Yes!”

Zevran massaged under his balls, rubbed a thumb over his dampening tip.

“Zev, please, oh please.”

He wrapped his fingers abound his hot, hard cock again and started pumping with fervor. Maker, he was thick. Zev imagined himself on his hands and knees, Alim filling him all the way up with a heavy, primal pounding. Alim holding his hips hard enough to bruise—

Alim came with a cry over his stomach and Zevran’s hand, his tunic still rucked up around his chest.

“That,” he panted, "was better than I’d imagined.”

Zev chuckled. “So you’ve been thinking of me?”

Alim was quiet.

“You mean . . .” Maldición. Had he known, he would have made it better. So he could see, or, at least, shared a real kiss first.

“You are a handsome and compassionate man. Surely there were many women and men in your Circle who would have enjoyed your company?” Zev’s travel bag and water skin were within reach. He pulled out a handkerchief, dampened it, and gently cleaned them off while he spoke. He’d love to know how salty Alim tasted, but had a feeling this conversation was more important than treating his tongue.

“It’s not allowed. They could make you Tranquil if they catch you. I—I didn’t want to risk it. Risk anyone.

“I hadn’t known . . . I suppose if I’d felt like this then, I would have risked it.” He gripped Zev’s hand tight.

“You are safe with me. That will not be your fate.”

“Do you still want to hold me?”

“Sí amor.” Zevran squeezed his hand and nuzzled into his back.

“And tomorrow . . . ?”

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow, can I hold you?”

Zev chuckled. “Yes, my Warden. I would like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Zevran and Alim's story is my 30th on AO3! [Read more](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/works).
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://dafan7711.tumblr.com/) for more on gaming and writing. Features include Dragon Age, Mass Effect, and [Write it Wednesday](https://dafan7711.tumblr.com/tagged/Write-it-Wednesday).


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